Metro 2033: Empire
by Team Wingless
Summary: When the bombs started flying, there wasn't much time to aim. Now that New York City has survived nuclear war, her people must fight to survive nuclear fallout in the Subway. Cut off from the world, besieged by irradiated horrors from the surface, there is no way to know if anyone else even survived the blast. PFC Nikolle Pepaj may have found a way. See what the Empire has in store
1. DAY 1

_Marine Park Scrap Metal Stand—they don't fucking tip out there. _

The Metro laughed in diesel.

She hopped a transport convoy at the Lowline, prepping for the long dark journey to Avenue U. The Lowline was an abandoned trolley station underneath the Lower East Side, where her company now occupied a space the size of three football fields.

"_Vatos locos! Ojos hasta amigos!" _The delivery drivers towed a handcart on the third rail, piled to the brim with scrap metal and _her. _She was a product to be delivered as well, the company liked their salesmen alive. So she manned the searchlight at the helm of the handcart, an oiled Kalashnikov safety-off on her knee.

Two days in the subterranean strata of the Metro, tunnel mist pooling like dark breath on the claustrophobic walls. No incidents, no one cared about the byway toward the L-line enough to guard it, the convoy passed in peace.

They ended up in Marine Park with food and gas lamps to spare. Now, time to go to work. She handed hunks of metal and random gear down, chaining it out in a line to the middle of the raised platform. When they finished, the convoy packed up and left, just like that.

Avenue U subway platform, otherwise known as _Marine Park Station_, otherwise known as a sorry excuse for an underground trailer park. Impromptu structures of rotted plywood and tent-canvas stood erected against the wall of the platform, jerry-rigged together with Teflon tape and meshwire. Sheetmetal roofs allowed quarters to be tiered, people were literally living on top of each other. Not much had changed in New York since moving from above ground to below, not even the fetid smell. Burning doldrums cast neurotic light on the grime of subway tiles, while dirty children in clogs and sac-cloths weaved wire-wreaths out of clothes hangers on the ground or carved ornaments from tunnel clay. The Metro held a sick mantra in the hearts of its ramshackle inhabitants.

_Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free. _

She weaved her way in sweeps around the slim platform, looking for her Stand. At the far end of the platform, a big sign demanded her attention—_SoHo Scrap._ _Service with a Smile. _

Pushing her hood off her regulation high-and-tight, she strolled toward the cleared-off landing of the platform. A constructed trailer patched together from linoleum and sheet metal sat with a blown out window for customer service, a sniper guard-shed sat across from it casting a shadow over a boneyard of rebuilt carburetors, jerry-rigged generators and half-smashed electronics. The Marine Park Scrap Stand, a place where dead technology came to die again, and take the sorry souls who sold them along for the ride.

She caught sight of the salesman on the floor, a Russian kid in digital-camo touting an MP5K. _Bastard Maker. _Marine Park was home to a huge Russian populace, they were the toughest customers and the world's greatest hagglers, even had their own separate scrap season devoted just to them. Her Balkan heritage clashed with his Muscovite air in a silent nervous energy, they did occupy her own country for how many years? But that was in her father's time, now under the crushing and corroding roof of the Metro, everyone was equally damned.

With her own AK still strapped to her back, she strolled up to him in that relaxed edge of friendship at arms-length.

"Hey what's up? I'm Nikolle Pepaj."

He spat a wad of snuff at her feet.

"Georgi Karamazov."

"Cool stuff. Can I by any chance get the key to your guard-shed?"

"Gimme five bullets."

"Uh…What?"

"Five bullets! Shit's not free."

"…"

He snorted. "It's in the trailer."

"…Thanks."

She moseyed over to the trailer wide-eyed, popped her head in and grabbed the key off the patched wall. Moseying back across the yard trying to look like she belonged there, like she was _claiming_ _space_, she unlocked the guard-shed at the far end. Inside was a 4x4 constructed storage space, white-walled in blown caulking with the only contents being the boxes of _real shit. _Ammo. They kept the money in the guard-shed. Dropping her pack on the floor next to the pile of other bags, she left the guard-shed locking the door behind her. That Georgi guy still sauntered around the sales floor like he owned the place. She went up to give him the key back, and he charged her stomping like he was about to break something beautiful.

"WHERE'S MY FIVE BULLETS!"

She froze. He squared up with that brawler's jaw, throwing her back with the sheer force of his prison glare. She almost gave it to him, she almost took five little bullets from her pocket right then and there and gave it to him.

Then, a sly smirk, and he threw his arms wide.

"Welcome to Brooklyn!"

Then he strolled away leaving her shaking in her logger boots.

Day 1. This was going to be a _long _season.


	2. DAY 2

Her first night, she slept in the hostel tent.

Had to get checked in with the community board—_hours _of interrogation, like she was some sort of POW.

She flashed her blue passport, _safe passage, _then her NY State ID, _work visa, _then flapped her company hoodie, _business license. _One last detail—five little bullets and a pound of hashish traded hands, _loyalty. _

They finally let her walk, she was no spy or saboteur, merely a rookie STALKER here to sell merchandise for the holiday season. Her company paid a great deal for her presence there. _SoHo Scrap_, the largest distributor in New York City, in business for over forty years providing only Premium and Grade 1 components and scrap metal. They only appeared on the radar once a year, selling scrap for the Christmas holiday, and then they were gone—like mist in the subway tunnels. They took in kids and misfits to work forty days straight, 16 hour shifts with zero days off, you find out a lot about a person when they're sleep deprived and talking delirious. Many quit, vanishing back to whatever wretched existence they had before as if the Metro wasn't equally as grueling. But the ones who made it…they were STALKERS.

The job was simple; rotated expeditions to the surface under the cover of darkness to grid for anything useful—computer parts were highly sought after—and the remaining time selling them at the stand for tip-fucking-top dollar markups. Why did they get to price gouge so ridiculously high to an already starving and suffering populace? Because _SoHo Fucking Scrap_, that's why. And plus, they had the money, they really did, the filthy rich just got their kicks off haggling.

Her first day of work, she showed up to find Georgi already on the floor arguing with a customer at 9am.

"_I vant de blue one_!" an old Cossack demanded, his face like smashed steel.

"Here, this is a blue one."

"Noh dats not eh blue one."

"It is! See look, it's blue."

"Is noh good comrade!"

"It's good! I picked it from a raptor's nest myself! Risk my own life!"

"It going to break! Three little bullets."

"Five little bullets."

"Now its two little bullets or I go away."

"Don't insult my honor! I don't come into your house and tell you your family is worth less than what you pay to keep them alive. My family is all these guys here, we go through much danger to bring you these components, and I'll see them all smashed before they go for anything less than four little bullets."

Georgi bore into the Cossack, while no expression crossed the man's face. His brow furrowed deep in thought, that stern folding of skin over a calloused cranium. Finally…

"Oh-kay, four little bullets, and this one is for you son."

"Thank you so much father, Happy New Year."

"_Dasvidaniya_."

She stared on in awe.

Georgi took the component over to the bailer table and wrapped it in packing cellophane to keep the tunnel residue off it for transport, consumer courtesy. After the customer had gone, Georgi saw her standing dumbfounded in the lot.

"You're early…"

"Thanks I—"

"Get to work…" he chucked her a broom. "Sweep up around these piles, any little bits of metal that come off them make people think they're broken."

"But they are—"

"Reinforce that A-Frame over there when you're done. If a customer comes, drop your hammer when you talk to them or I'll smash your face in myself. Prices are in the trailer, start with the highest. _Don't budge._ And DON'T tell anyone that I speak Russian."

"Why not?"

"They'll try to get a deal."

"I see, they expect a bargain from Russian to Russian."

"I'm not Russian."

"Huh?"

"I'm Georgian."

She pinched her chin. "…Georgi from Georgia!"

He snorted and shuffled off. "_Chertovy Russkiye_."

The other crewmembers rolled in on their own time, ten to fifteen minutes late, Georgi didn't care. A rustic bunch of rough-necks, they filed in like a motley crew, gnawing on jerky rations. She stood with her arms crossed, head down leaning against the guard shed. _I mean no harm but don't fuck with me. _

One black kid didn't get the memo. He strolled over in a torn-up beater coat.

"How you doing miss? I'm Aaron Lockheart." He offered his hand and she shook it.

"Nikolle Pepaj."

"Nikolle. Can I call you Nikki?"

"…Sure."

"I love the name Nikki. It suits your personality, you've got a great personality."

"…kay."

"Aaron fuck off to the floor! Customers!" Georgi snapped.

"Sorry boss." Then Aaron dashed to flirt with the buyers the same way he flirted with her. She relaxed, swaggering off the guard shed to join the group. She stood next to a grizzled hard-hatter in a tool belt, carrying a sawed-off shotgun.

"That's Aaron, he'll fuck anything that moves," said the hard-hatter.

"No kidding."

"…Me on the other hand, I just like things that wriggle."

She peered up in a slow glare.

"…Oh no, I'm going to have to be putting up with you all season aren't I?"

"Well, putting _something _anyway."

"Fuck me," she groaned.

"Invitation?"

She scoffed, and he cracked a satisfied grin.

"Adam Seryozha, don't worry, I'll grow on you."

A big hand fell on her shoulder, she shoved it off and strolled to the sales floor, _look alive now_.

Another black gentleman strolled near her, heavy-set in a black ball-cap, the _SAW guy_.

"Wassup girl?"

"…Don't start."

"Naw, don't worry mama, I'm just the tech guy. See this? Russians call this a 'blue one,' it's a power-cell from the big satellites they used to keep on Server Towers." He held up a palm-sized battery filled with blue gel, emanating a dull glow amid dingy overhead tunnel lights. "There used to be whole buildings filled with nothing but servers, entire structures that powered the Stock Exchange. Lower part of the World Trade Center is a honey hole, plus the New York Public Library—it's Eden. We'd all be rich as kings if we hit that up."

She squinted at his logic, the stink of exaggeration.

"Then why haven't you?"

But he just smiled at her, a warm look in his blue eyes.

"Leslie Riot. I gotch'ur back."

He threw her a wink, clucking as he walked away. A little too nice, a little too interested. They all smelled blood in the water.

"Hey guys! Let's get these A-frames built already instead of standing around jerking off!"

Georgi yelled like Stalingrad for everyone to get in gear, and they all sprang into action. They nailed long 2x4's together in an "A" shape—_A-frame_—then attached them with planks like a saw-horse. Studs nailed across the feet kept them from falling over, sort of.

Georgi strolled over to one they were working on, then kicked it as hard as he could. It toppled over like a Jenga tower. He stormed away swearing in Russian.

She held a frame steady between her legs while others attached the support planks. She couldn't acknowledge the comments about wood between her legs, it would only make it worse. Out of planks, she ran back to the pile to grab an armload more.

_Sonofabitch…the planks still had nails in them!_ Crew-monkeys didn't de-nail them last season, which meant she'd have to this season. She bent over to pry rusty nails out with all her might, scoffing at the eyes she could feel transfixed on her angled backside. After five straight minutes of struggling with the hammer, a Spanish guy in a big sweatshirt came over.

"C'mere lemme show you a trick…" He stuck another plank underneath the head of the hammer, the nail slid right out. "Fulcrums, comes out easy. Angel Madrigal. You need help with anything, you let me know."

She gave him the look up and down. He was all serious, a stern expression that wasn't looking for anything; a relief.

"Thanks. So far you seem like the most level-headed one here."

"Wife and kid here, not looking to change it. But the most level guy…That'd be Georgi."

"Bullshit."

"Naw, he's a good kid, in the National Guard, reads Classics, takes no shit."

"And he's in charge of this whole shindig?"

"He's a good boss, you'll see."

She winced, doubtful. If their definition of good character was _that_, then what was their definition of bad? She hopped up to the handcart and unloaded more planks and studs. Fast now, had to prove her worth. If she was worth her salt more than they were she wouldn't catch lip from them. Plus, the astronomical turnover rate among rookies in the outfit was no accident. She worked with the fear of God in her gut.

Busting ass, she didn't let up. Georgi just shook his head at her hustling.

"When I look at you, I don't see a person, I just see 'woman.'"

At least he was honest. She kinda liked it that way. Straight up, straight forward like a true Brooklynite. New Yorkers called it "laying your cards on the table." Georgi wouldn't stab her in the back, he'd waltz up and stab her straight in the tits in broad daylight. _Respect_.

Sweat from her brow dripped onto the grimy concrete, she grit her teeth sucking it up. When the planks and cinderblocks lay in neat rank off the cart, she breathed with hands on hips. She jumped down and shuffled over to the bailer table to catch her breath, she'd earned it. But when Georgi plopped down next to her, she figured she'd have to fight for it.

"Apparently I'm the most sexist guy on the crew…" he shrugged.

She cocked an eyebrow, where could they ever have gotten _that _notion?

"Why's that?"

"I told the guys 'why is Nikolle unloading the cart when we've got five strong guys here?' They're all 'that's sexist!'"

He swigged a flask of Vodka from his coat pocket.

"I don't think women should vote," he offered her some.

"Tch, I don't think they should either." She swigged some quick like he had. She knew how to pull that thing.

"You know what we say in Old Country? Women always go to the courthouse in pairs because each one is half a vote."

"Hahaha!"

"Just to show how sexist I am, I'm going to call my girlfriend to come unload the cart _with _you. We'll all just sit around drinking and watching."

"Pfft, shit will actually get done around here then!"

Georgi smirked, giving her the affirming eye. Then he hopped off the table back to work.

The A-frames got built, the lot got swept, the flask got passed around, and the night watchman eventually arrived to relieve them. The camaraderie banter eased up as they headed to the trailer for sack time.

But Georgi hung back, walking slower to fall in step with her. He muttered in a low tone, touching his shoulder to hers.

"You sleep next to me tonight baby."

That's it, she'd _finally_ had enough. Just when she thought she'd laid her cards on the table, so much for respect.

"You keep your hands to yourself or _I'll kill you_," she growled, but he just squinted in all seriousness.

"Trust me, you don't want to sleep next to anyone else here."

Then he strolled ahead, his assertive air dissipating like tunnel fog, _a rouse_. She glanced at all the leering eyes trying not to get caught in her general direction, and trotted to catch up with Georgi.

Filing into the empty trailer, guys threw down slabs of cardboard for sleeping mats in a line on the crusty ground. She watched where Georgi threw his down, _near the end_, then threw hers down next to his facing the wall.

He kept his hands to himself, and no one died that night.


End file.
